<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Widow, Soldier, Strike, Star by everythingchanges</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665976">Widow, Soldier, Strike, Star</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingchanges/pseuds/everythingchanges'>everythingchanges</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, Female Character of Color, Gen, Natasha Romanov Feels, Original Character(s), Protective Natasha Romanov, Red Room (Marvel), SHIELD, Sister-Sister Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:02:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,952</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665976</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingchanges/pseuds/everythingchanges</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I used to have nothing, and then I got this–this job, this family.” That wasn’t entirely true. Even when Natasha felt like she had nothing, she always had her. As what is left of the Avengers works to recover those lost after The Snap, Natasha seeks help locating a rogue Clint from the one person who wants to hear from her the least. A series of one-shots about two sisters that occur in their multiplex definitions of home: the Red Room, S.H.I.E.L.D., and anywhere next to the man with the metal arm.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. sestra</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for reading! This fic will be comprised of a series of one-shots that centre around Natasha Romanov, intended to be more of a character study that emphasizes her importance to the Avengers and explore what's at stake for her during her time in the Red Room and S.H.I.E.L.D., rather than a story with a linear narrative/plot.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Hong Kong, 2023 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Crowded. That’s how Natasha Romanov used to describe her experience shuffling through the winding streets of Hong Kong on one of her frequent visits in days gone by, not to mention humid, bustling, and brimming with a force to be reckoned with. But with billions in the universe turned to dust at the hands of Thanos five years ago, she even dared to take a red and white taxi to her destination this evening–a population of 7 million splintered in half meant there was hardly any traffic in sight. Natasha closed her eyes in the back seat, retracing the hectic events of the last two weeks as sky-high neon blurred through rainy windows, colours gliding over her tense features like a mood ring.</p><p>
  <em> “This channel is always active. So, if anything goes sideways, anyone's making trouble where they shouldn't, it comes through me,” Natasha said from the office in Avengers HQ, nodding towards the holographic projections of what was left of the Avengers–if she could even call them that. As the images of Rocket, Okoye, Nebula, and Carol Danvers dissipated, she sat down at her desk in a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Raising her head to see Rhodey still on the line, she asked, “Where are you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Mexico. The Federales found a room full of bodies–looks like a bunch of cartel guys. Never even had the chance to get their guns off.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She knew why he held back after the group call, but she was sick of feeling that slight twinge of wasted hope, “it's probably a rival gang.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Except it isn't. It's definitely Barton,” he insisted, “what he's done here, what he's been doing for the last few years–I mean, the scene that he left…I gotta tell you, there's a part of me that doesn't even want to find him.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Natasha’s face pinched as he spoke. Casting her eyes to her lap, she felt the threat of tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Since when did she allow her emotions to get in the way? They didn’t allow it in the Red Room, they didn’t in S.H.I.E.L.D., either. She wondered for a split second how much she gained in her stint running with Steve and Sam, how those gains could simultaneously equal losses. In her years with Earth’s mightiest heroes and her fight to keep them together emerged a new Natasha that she still didn’t quite know how to deal with. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Will you find out where he's going next?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To distract herself, she took a bite out of her peanut butter sandwich. God, it was all so sad. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Nat…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Please?” </em>
</p><p>Clint. She presumed the worst from his radio silence, until Rhodey stumbled upon the horrific scene of the slaughtered remains of an underground human trafficking cult in Albany, New York two years ago. His assessment of the assassin’s technique checked off all the boxes for Clint, even if the archer swapped his arrows for blades. Since then, Rhodey was tasked with investigating similar events, but always arrived too late. As if living with the results of The Snap weren’t painful enough, Natasha felt the weight of an indescribable emotion that rooted itself in her body; Clint Barton was the man who decided to spare her life and disregard her sins, and it seemed like he had taken her place.</p><p>In an attempt to push the cacophony of her thoughts to the back of her mind, Natasha opened her eyes and unlocked her phone, scrolling through a series of messages from an +852 phone number. She needed to find Clint, in an effort to get the team back and save whoever he was planning to kill next, so she took a risk and reached out to the last person on Earth she knew wanted to hear from the ex-spy. Her. When Natasha seemingly had nothing, she always had <em> her </em>. They hadn’t seen each other since the Sokovia Accords ripped them apart, her last visit to Hong Kong and the shouting match with the borderline tears in that tiny, bare bones apartment. She didn’t know what to say, how to repair what they had, but she wanted to so badly.</p><p>Since then she had chosen to defy the Accords and join Steve and Sam in their underground vigilantism, and failed miserably to prevent The Snap and its aftermath. Natasha lost everything in the wake of Thanos’s destruction when what little she had left after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., everything she fought to keep, was wiped away that day in Wakanda. She sat speechless on the quinjet ride back to the Avengers compound, feeling the deepest terror she had ever experienced in her life. She hoped it was hidden behind her blanked-out façade, but was beyond caring whether it radiated off her body in waves and collided with the disappointment that emanated from her remaining teammates. Upon landing, she shot off two text messages, one to Clint, and one to her:</p><p>
  <b>Status ASAP – N</b>
</p><p>A single reply came through:</p><p>
  <b>Still here. – S </b>
</p><p>Sighing, she scrolled down to the latest messages, analyzing the bursts of words for signs that alluded to some form of truce:</p><p>
  <b>Found Him. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Where? </b>
</p><p>
  <b>It’s not him anymore, Tasha. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Please. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Fine. Tokyo. I have the intel. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Taking a quinjet in the morning. Coming to you. </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Alone? </b>
</p><p>
  <b>Alone. </b>
</p><p>“Miss, we have arrived,” the driver spoke gently, breaking Natasha from her reverie. She thanked him in perfect Cantonese, handing him the fare while grasping at the door handle. A slight breeze met her as she charged up to the pale pink apartment building with purpose–almost desperation–her hips losing their usual Black Widow sway. When the keypad at the glass entrance approved the numbers she punched in, she let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and powered up the stairs. Level 3, flat 9.</p><p>With each lock that yielded to her set of keys, more weight lifted off her chest. Fingertips finally clutching the doorknob, she heard the electronic mechanism on the other side approve her prints and as she entered, she fought to suppress a premature smile. Kicking off her boots and smoothing out her khaki green jacket, her eyes flickered around, drinking in signs of welcoming: the set table, two cups next to a pot of hot tea, and wisps of fragrant steam emanating from the kitchen. The apartment was still kept minimal, two pairs of ballet slippers dangling from the coat hooks next to the door and an arrow mounted on the wall above a black piano in the sitting room as the only signs of sentiment. The familiarity enveloped her like a warm embrace. Nothing had changed; she hoped they hadn’t either.</p><p>“Stell?” Before she could catch it, the habitual call escaped her lips like a hopeful prayer.</p><p>“Took you long enough,” Stella emerged from the kitchen, just as she remembered: petite, tanned, jet-black hair twisted into a mid-length braid, and a voice equally as smooth as Natasha’s. Resting her denim-clad hip on the door jamb to the kitchen and wiping her hands on a dishtowel, Stella’s dark eyes almost sparkled at the sight of the ex-Russian spy.</p><p>Although they hailed from different parts of the world, one plucked from an orphanage in Volgograd, and the other from Guangzhou, they seemed bound to each other by a higher hand from the cosmos, one that always brought the two prized champions of the Black Widow Ops Program together again.</p><p>“Hey, I had to fly here – what’s your excuse?” Natasha tried her luck, her lip twitching up ever so slightly while she flicked her red-to-blonde ombre locks over her shoulder.</p><p>“Well, when half your contacts crumble to dust, leads don’t come as quickly anymore,” smirk reciprocated.</p><p>In a habit from days gone by, the two former spies scanned each other for signs of any visible injury. While appearing fit and forever young–a trait ensured by the Soviets–the pair carried an air of deep exhaustion, an inherent mentality that plagued those with onus, who had seen and done too much. Natasha noted the taut muscle Stella retained and pushed away the urge to interrogate her on her activities in the time they spent apart. Stella noticed Natasha’s usually sharp features were even sharper, a sign that she hadn't been sleeping well or eating properly for a while. When they finally met each other’s gaze, their expressions eased; whatever internal damage was done was in the past. What came next weighed heavily on both their minds–words they were never allowed to say: <em> I missed you. I’m happy to see you. I’m glad you’re okay. </em></p><p>“Stell–”</p><p>“I found him,” Stella gestured to the unlabelled dossier on the table, thick with evidence, “he’s been touring through Japan this last week chasing Yakuza. Last seen in Tokyo two days ago–Shinjuku. Goes by <em> Ronan </em> now apparently,” she sighed, shaking her head, “Tasha, he’s doing this all in plain sight.”</p><p>“Have you tried intercepting him?” the redhead sat at the table, switching to mission mode and opening the folder to reveal images of Clint’s latest victims.</p><p>“Why, so he can kill me too?”</p><p>Natasha shot her a look. Right. They both had red in their ledgers, but only one of them attempted to wipe hers out. She pressed on nonetheless, “don’t you think we owe it to him to try?”</p><p>“And then what?” Stella asked only to meet silence, “are you going to tell me what you're trying to achieve here?”</p><p>Natasha broke out of her long pause, swallowing the building tension in the air, “we might have found a way. To reverse it, to bring everyone back.”</p><p>“сестра–” <em> Sister. </em></p><p>“No, hear me out. We can bring everyone back, we just need more hands on deck, Clint included – <em> you </em> included.”</p><p>Natasha’s heart was pounding. It wasn’t only their initial reunion that she was anxious about, it was the question of whether Stella would follow her back to New York that made her palms sweat. She didn’t know what to expect from their meeting; during the jet ride her analytic mind calculated every possible encounter they could’ve had: a warm reception, a cold rejection, a negotiation, a failed guilt trip, even a fist fight—but all those scenarios didn’t involve dropping the time travel bomb so quickly into the evening.</p><p>In her heart of hearts, getting her best friends back wasn’t solely about saving the world or sparing future victims. She couldn’t deny anymore how much of a mess she really was; her mental state continued to decrescendo, visible for everyone to see, even if they were too polite to say anything. During the first two years post-Snap, her and Steve’s war criminal statuses had been retconned and they busied themselves, consulting with the U.S. government to rebuild American intelligence apparatuses after half their employees disintegrated into dust. She acted as head of the Avengers, tracking Earth-bound and interplanetary threats, but after those first years, activity dropped significantly and only Carol had been busy, while the others kept coming back with reports of earthquakes under the ocean and high-speed garbage vessel chases in outer space. A small part of her was curious as to whether the team’s investigations and monthly calls back to HQ were only for her benefit, to entertain a woman who used to have a purpose and now went back to having nothing.</p><p>Being in S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, helping to protect the world was the driving force of a changed Natasha. So she kept pushing herself to keep the team together, to do good, to keep being better. But soon after they arrived home from Wakanda, Tony and Thor severed themselves from the group, then Bruce, and now Steve insisted that she move on, that the work they were doing didn’t need to be done. What could she move on to, with her best friends and her purpose gone? How could she claim she did good, when everything she worked so hard for ended up being for nothing? It stung even more knowing that Clint and Stella were out there, carrying on without her. It felt as though her life was crumbling apart at the edges of the immense void that she desperately yearned for them to occupy.</p><p>But as if someone beyond the stratosphere answered her wishes, the team found new hope after the re-emergence of Scott Lang, who brought a revelation, setting off a chain of events that convinced Tony and Bruce to come back. Did she believe in time travel? Scott’s time in the Quantum Realm was living proof that it existed in some form, and the biggest scientific brains in the gang were getting closer to refining it. They needed to assemble the Avengers, and while Bruce and Rocket planned to make the trek to Norway to retrieve a reluctant Thor, she heard from Stella. If Tony, Bruce, and Thor agreed to return, then maybe she could resurrect STRIKE Team Delta too.</p><p>For a brief moment the brunette turned to stone at the proposition before sitting at the table and running a hand over her face, “I told you ten years ago, Tasha, I’m not joining <em>your</em> <em>Avengers</em>. It still stands.”</p><p>It was true. The Battle of New York sparked an awakening in Natasha, helping her recognize that her very particular skill set could be put to something more. But that meant a shift in how things worked at S.H.I.E.L.D. for her, namely <em> who </em> she worked with; and in an unspoken attempt to keep her family together, she relentlessly tried to convince her sister of the benefits of her new team to no avail. In the multiple times Stella brushed off the request, she all but said what she really felt: <em> I don’t care about saving the world, I only care about you </em>.</p><p>The blunt rejection was like a blow to the chest. If Natasha were anyone else–a normal person maybe–she would have flinched in embarrassment, but she sat still, brain trying to both devise a new way to make the request again and halt the shuddered breath that threatened to rise out of her chest. Didn’t Stella realize, she thought, that she was being asked for <em> more </em>?</p><p>“You don’t have to. Please, sis,” Natasha leant over, extending her hand across the table; her voice wavering. Unable to look Stella in the eye, her gaze lingered on the familiar tiny platinum star necklace that permanently resided on her sister’s chest, “<em> please just come back with me </em>.”</p><p>Stella’s brow furrowed, examining the face she grew up coming home to–one that was unfailingly stoic, brave, that dared adversaries with the minutest of motions, but now she was looking at someone different. The two were trained to live lives devoid of personal meaning, whose sole objectives were to exist unnoticed, advancing no further than to fight in the name of a country that would never love them back. She could argue that the same occurred after they defected from bright red to stars and stripes, but she knew they would disagree on that now; she could tell by the way her sister’s eyes so easily welled with tears. It was only after the Avengers, she noted, did Natasha allow herself to believe that anything outside of <em>them</em> really mattered.     </p><p>“Well,” the brunette’s tone softened as she gently trailed her fingers over her sister’s wrist, the feel of familiar skin blooming a warmth in her chest, “I made dinner. Can we eat before we leave?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. morning star</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Warning for graphic depictions of violence. I also wanted to note that I read several BW comics in preparation for this chapter to better understand what was going on in the Red Room, so if you've read those you'll see some elements in here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>The Red Room Academy, Moscow, 1988</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This should be enough,” the blonde woman hummed approvingly, standing between thick wood pillars at the base of a grand staircase. Constricted by her form fitting deep green blazer, her arms folded over her long skirt in a perfect V formation, “you ladies did well, collecting all these girls,” she said, addressing her comrades present in the room.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Madame B,” the women bowed their heads in unison. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two months ago, the Russian military commander had been granted a high honour by the top tier of Department X: to create a new branch of their esteemed female training program that aimed to strengthen the intelligence force of the Soviet Union. After their loss in the Second World War, their intelligence agencies ceased to rest, working relentlessly to plant sleeper agents in every major capital city of the world over the last 40 years. Now it was time to pervade opponents with an advanced breed of spy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once she had been given her task she sent her team throughout the Soviet Union and China, raiding orphanages and taking those who showed promise. The product of those journeys was a set of 28 little girls formed in rows before them, awkwardly shuffling their tiny feet along the scarlet carpet that lined the monumental foyer of the Red Room Academy. Warmly illuminated by the incandescent lights, the girls appeared bathed and groomed, all donning identical navy pinafore dresses overtop light collared shirts, black shoes and braided ponytails. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Girls,” she began, as her comrades began speaking along with her in various languages, translating her greeting, “welcome to the Academy. You are all very lucky that we have chosen you to be a part of our family,” she smiled tenderly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hips swayed confidently as she stepped closer to them–a motion that, unbeknownst to them, would be adopted by all who survived to the end of their time there. Eyes scanning each row, she studied the faces of every one of her new recruits, their features etched with fear and uncertainty. They all shared an air of resignation; none of them had anyone who would be searching for them, and they knew it. There was so much potential–it pleased her to no end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do they have names?” she turned to one of her comrades. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Some of them do, Madame B.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll start with her,” she demanded, gesturing towards a cherubic redhead with a delicately pointed chin and luminous green eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Natalia Alianova Romanova. She was delivered to us by a soldier who claims he found her in Volgograd. Her origins are...very unclear. ”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perfect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They moved swiftly down the rows, with Madame B’s comrades stating names and origins as much as their tome of stolen paperwork could provide. The more information missing, the more the commander’s excitement sizzled. Blank slates meant they could create the ideal shapeshifter, agile apex predators with knowledge of the world’s diplomatic structures that they would eventually burn to the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they arrived at the end of the line, the matriarch’s bubble burst and she bristled briefly at the battered state of the final child. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Her name is Li San Sing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tiny figure pointed her round face up at the adults examining her, hands fidgeting behind her back. Upon closer inspection, bruises could be seen under her left eye and littered down her arms. Madame B gently stroked the girl’s plump cheek with the backs of her fingers, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>morning star</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Beautiful name.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was given an English name,” her comrade commented, flipping through the paperwork, “Stella. The orphanage hoped she would be adopted by an American family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She doesn’t fit the parameters I gave you–she’s puny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, but she is a defiant child. All the others ran off hiding as we stormed the facility, but she stayed in her place.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Defiant, maybe,” the commander replied skeptically, “or she is acclimatized to being afraid. Did the other orphans do this to you?” She turned over the girl’s arms to inspect the bruises.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She says yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Madame B pondered for a moment before looking back down at the child. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Once we’re finished with you, no one will do this to you ever again.”  </span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>1996</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Again, Natasha. One and–”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait, Master Sterelny,” Natasha huffed over the orchestral music, hands raised towards the bun her hair, “I need to readjust my pin.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hurry up, then. Now, one and two and...” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Piqué, arabesque, piqué, arabesque, piqué. The redhead glided across the rehearsal studio, her black wrap skirt fluttering in her self-made breeze. Around the room she went, occasionally glancing at herself in the mirrors and flashing a satisfied grin.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Again. Two more minutes.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sterenly,” Madame B’s stern voice filled the room through the ajar door, “is the serum still taking effect?” she asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grunted an affirmative, “45 minutes strong, but I expect it to begin wearing off soon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing the door open, the matriarch entered the small doctor’s surgery, the walls an off white hue with a few standard medical tools hung along the walls. Sitting in the corner was her colleague, holding a stopwatch and observing the chair adjacent to him where a 12-year old Natasha sat, eyes open, ensnared in a waking dream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shifted her attention to the single ballerina piqué-ing across the television stationed in front of the girl. “Excellent. When it is done leave her here until evening meal. Meet me for a debrief in my office in two hours.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She returned to the hallway and exited through a pair of double doors into a small courtyard lined with grey stone columns and perfectly planted trees. Awaiting her were 14 girls from the cohort standing in a circle wearing identical white uniforms. As part of their training, once a day half the Widows were selected to engage in hand-to-hand combat, monitored by the matriarch. After years of combat exercises today’s group proved particularly strong, with the smallest girl, Stella, surprisingly displaying a mixture of aggression, agility and forethought into her moves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After deeming the first round a success, Madame B decided that she would begin the next level of training today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok, we will go again. Stella and Tatyana, take your positions.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stella glanced across the circle at her contemporary, the lanky strawberry blonde who she saw everyday in the dining hall and during classes. She and Tatyana used to tolerate one another, but their relationship soured when the two were often pitted against together during these training sessions. With Tatyana being the tallest of the cohort and Stella the shortest, their constant pairing was much to Stella’s chagrin; perhaps it was the insecurity about her petite stature that led to Tatyana winning every time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fight began as usual, with Stella wrestling with the blonde, Tatyana’s long outstretched arms forcing the crown of her head down, obstructing her ability to see and causing her to struggle to make her next move. Feet planted to the ground, she tried using her body to push back to no avail, then resorted to trying to pry the fingers off her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I win again,” Tatyana sneered, eliciting a few giggles from the circle before they were shushed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stella growled in frustration. As she jostled her head left and right, her memory reminded her of the aftermath of the last time she found herself in the same predicament. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Wind spun around Stella’s tiny figure like a tornado as she sat in the middle of the courtyard with her head between her propped knees. The air was frigid but she didn’t care – her mind was occupied by another loss. Minutes had passed since Tatyana bested her again and the girls were dismissed. She knew she didn’t stand a chance of winning, but it didn’t help that the rest of them acted superior to her when she failed. Most of the Widows had gone back inside for lunch, save for one person, whose presence she felt alongside her on the concrete. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you crying?” Natasha was right next to her ear. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” she said through gritted teeth. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Come on, everyone has left,” the redhead pried her arm from around her leg but she snatched it back. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop trying to help me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll always help you,” Natasha replied, resting her head on the brunette’s shoulder, “we’re sisters.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stella poked her head up just high enough to peer over, “we’re not really sisters, though.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Natasha stood up and sighed, “please let me help you? I’m sure you’re embarrassed everytime you lose, otherwise you wouldn’t be here crying. Let me at least show you what I think you should do next time the giant grabs your head.”   </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Using both hands, Stella gripped Tatyana’s wrists, swinging on her taut arms like a set of monkey bars, and slid along the concrete, knocking the girl’s legs out from under her. Somersaulting backwards, Stella pushed her back down on the ground and straddled her upper body, knees atop her arms, and delivered punch after punch until Tatyana found the strength to kick herself up, knocking Stella over. Quick to recover, she grabbed the back of Tatyana’s shirt with her bloodied hand, pulling them back down together and wrapping both arms around the blonde’s head with as much pressure as she could muster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This moment had to be it, the impasse where the match would be put to a halt before survival instincts kicked in. Stella locked eyes with Madame B, waiting for the ceasefire signal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, the matriarch moved her arms in a cradling motion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mimicking the action, Stella twisted her body with a heave of her shoulders, feeling the crunch of bone shifting in the crook of her elbow. The combined sensations knocked the air from her lungs, eliciting a wheeze as she fell backwards onto the ground, her soft stomach the final resting place of her fellow Widow. Sonic tones blasted through her ears from an adrenaline rush that seemed eager to stay coursing through her veins. She sensed the presence of two adults approaching them, hunching over Tatyana before carrying her away. Eyes rolling around the courtyard, she saw the remaining girls still sitting around the ring, but their bodies recoiled from her, horror splashed over their faces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tatyana is the first one to go,” Madame B finally piped up, “and I’m sorry to say this girls, but there will be more of you. It may be by chance, a wrong move, or your opponent may be superior to you in strength and wit,” the energy in the courtyard stirred as the girls looked to one another, unsettled, “but this is what we’re preparing you for. You are all dismissed. Wash up for supper.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The floor rumbled from the footsteps exiting the courtyard, the tremors of which rattled Stella’s bones. She was unaware of how much time had lapsed while she lay there on the cement, but it couldn’t have been long because the matriarch hadn’t gone back inside, instead gingerly walking over to the girl and crouching over, curiously gazing down like she was observing a rat in a lab experiment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The more you do it, the more it will feel like a game,” the woman’s voice was severely muffled by the ringing in Stella’s ears, “this is how we </span>
  <em>
    <span>win</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Stella,” her hand faintly touched the girl’s face, “вставать.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get up</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>///</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The evening meal bell rang shrilly, breaking Stella from her waking nightmare as she lay in bed, alone in the shared sleeping quarters. She lethargically rolled over, her legs like rocks falling onto the wood floor, the rest of her body following. Knowing she would be punished for wearing a blood-speckled shirt to dinner, she sluggishly changed into an identical white shirt in the bathroom before trudging out into the hallway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Entering the dining room, she took a tray and joined the queue. She detected the presence of the other Widows around her, but was distracted by the sensation of the metal prodding the crooks of her elbow and how it reminded her of the whole bone and flesh that was clamped there not an hour ago. She felt the usual weight of a bowl of clear broth and a chunk of bread being placed on her tray and she turned her attention to finding a place to sit. Staring blankly around the room, her brain barely registered the other girls’ faces, but she felt a twist of agitation whenever anyone from this afternoon’s session eyed her from afar. Scanning the room further, her gaze rested on one of the tables that hadn’t filled up yet, occupied by a single redhead. That’s when she decided she didn’t want to sit with anyone from today’s match, and made a b-line for the table, not caring to regard the grunts and glares she received when she bumped shoulders with anyone along the way. She sat down directly in front of Natasha, and much to her displeasure, a few other Widows joined them, preoccupied by their meals.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The dining room was meant to be silent; the girls knew to stay quiet and eat, but they would all test the waters, whispering to one another when a chair was dragged across the wooden floor or a tray clanged against a table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha looked up from her bowl as Stella sat and her face lit up at the sight of the brunette. “I had a private lesson at the Bolshoi,” she whispered, her lips barely moving, “the instructor, Master Sterenly said I have a bright future.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Stella stared across the table blankly, a barely-there sensation tingling in her chest. She wondered what Natasha had done to be rewarded a ballet class, while she was forced to do what she did.</span> <span>Was she simply born bad? Maybe it was meant to be; the burn of anger that permanently resided in her heart must have been visible to Madame B all this time. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of returning Natasha’s glittering eyes with a response, she picked up her bowl and sipped on the broth, the cold liquid bringing no relief as it squeezed around the imaginary rock that had grown in her stomach. She placed the bowl back on the tray before pushing the entire thing away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha looked down at the untouched bread and half sipped broth, “you should eat that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Green eyes darting around, the redhead caught the expressions of the five other girls at the table–a mix of skittishness and judgement directed at the brunette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What hap—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was cut off by the chiming of the bell that ended dinner. In unison, all the girls stood from their chairs and lined themselves up to be escorted from the dining hall to the showers. Stella could feel Natasha’s eyes boring into the back of her head and the occasional graze of her wrist, but she didn’t dare look back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep eluded Stella that evening, her memories of that afternoon taking place of what little dreams she had already. She whimpered and turned incessantly, jangling the handcuffs that held her in place against the metal bed frame. Tatyana’s pale face was invisible to her that afternoon before she snapped her neck, but in the dream she could see the kill head on. The blonde’s eyes were wide and her mouth was gaping. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, yes, Stella could feel the wetness on her forearm, the droplets cascading off her skin by the force of Tatyana’s breath. Then she felt water on her face. Was it raining and she hadn’t noticed?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jolted awake. Blinking her eyes, hot droplets dripped down her face and neck. She whimpered in an uncontrollable act of self pity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you crying?” a tiny voice whispered from her left. Natasha was always a light sleeper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she responded weakly, free arm wiping her face with the sleeve of her white nightgown.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha rolled over, handcuffs slipping down, allowing her to lay at the very edge of the bed, “next time, you go to the Bolshoi. Whatever you had to do today – I’ll do it in your place, ok? Stella?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Met with silence, she extended her left leg as far as she could, her foot rubbing against her sister’s calf, where it would remain until morning. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. ghost story, pt. I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Warning again for graphic depictions of violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, Washington DC, 2014 </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“I know who killed Fury.” </p>
<p>Natasha looked up at Steve Rogers, eyes wide and calculating, backed between his solid form and the wall of the hospital waiting room, “most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists, the ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.”</p>
<p>“So he's a ghost story,” Steve pushed further. </p>
<p>“Five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him—straight through me,” she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing a deep scar on the left side of her stomach, “Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye-bye bikinis,” she continued to deal out half-truths, eyes flickering back and forth over Steve’s stern mask, trying to suss out whether he trusted her or not.</p>
<p>In another time, Steve would have been flustered at the sight, but times were changing quick, “yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now.”</p>
<p>“Going after him is a dead end–I know, I've tried. Like you said, he's a ghost story,” she held out Fury’s flash drive that she fished out of the vending machine. Why did <em>Steve</em> have it? Why did Fury trust him over her? Her whole being stung with jealousy, confusion, and grief over the fact that she would never get the answers. The people from her past had released their greatest weapon and Fury was dead. As she bought time with Steve, she was losing time to make a personal call, one she made anytime the ghost re-emerged: <em>The Soldier is back.</em> <em>Go dark. You might be his next mission</em>. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em> The Red Room Academy, Moscow, 2001 </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“Strike me harder,” Stella hissed. </p>
<p>“I’m <em> not </em> going to hit you harder,” Natasha grunted, dodging the brunette’s swipe and knocking away the Kizlyar blade pointed in her direction before dropping her own and raising her forearms. </p>
<p>“I,” <em> punch </em> , “am,” <em> punch </em> , “the,” <em> punch </em>, “enemy.” </p>
<p>“The enemy usually doesn’t talk this much.”  </p>
<p>Natasha caught the last oncoming punch, twisting Stella’s arm with the intention of flipping her on her back, but the brunette used the momentum to cartwheel and pull them to the ground. Bouncing back up immediately, Stella ran for her knife, which Natasha kicked away, and they went back into the match bare handed. They deflected each other’s blows with such grace that without weapons, in another setting, they could have been mistaken for dance partners.  </p>
<p>Natasha pulled on Stella’s waistband, bringing her closer and serving an uppercut while swiftly kicking behind her knees, tackling the brunette to the ground. With Stella in a chokehold, she made eye contact with Madame B standing at the edge of the room, awaiting permission for the dreaded final snap. After years of hand-to-hand combat with the other girls, she knew this is what she had to do, that in the real world it was kill or be killed, but she had a strange feeling weighing on her chest that constricted her ability to breathe, and the sensation grew heavier as Stella’s fingers tenderly glided over her arm and rested over her hand. Permission to kill never came, and Stella found her footing, catapulting herself up and releasing the hold over her face, slamming her head backwards causing Natasha to stumble away.</p>
<p>Watching the scene beside Madame B was 68-year old geneticist, Dr. Lyudmila Kudrin, whose dull grey eyes followed the girls with the utmost intrigue. </p>
<p>“When you said there might be two girls, I thought you were getting sentimental in your old age,” the doctor muttered, garnering a side-eyed glare, “but now, I see.”</p>
<p>“<em> All </em> my girls are fabulous. They fight with grace and kill without hesitation,” the matriarch rebutted sharply, “these two, however, have scored the top marks. They are made of marble.” </p>
<p>“Well, if you don’t stop them, they might just kill each other now.” </p>
<p>Madame B rolled her eyes and called the fight to a halt. Both Widows immediately jumped apart, grabbing towels and patting at their sweaty faces. Looking across the room, Natasha caught Stella’s gaze, shooting an inquisitive look that was met with a swift reassuring nod. The redhead vigorously rubbed her new fringe that she deeply regretted asking for, the curtain of hair creating a distinct sweat zone that she had already wiped several times that day. </p>
<p>
  <em> “Don’t move,” Stella said from her position on the bathroom countertop, “I have to get it straight.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Why do I have to stand?” Natasha grumbled, stood between her sister’s legs, fists knuckling the edges of the counter. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “You are taller than me,” she replied matter-of-factly, grabbing a segment of auburn hair and brushing it forwards over Natasha’s visage, switchblade in her right hand, “now hold still. It’s going to look great unless you move.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Instant bangs in one swift motion. The redhead stepped back and assessed her new hairdo in the mirror, “perfectly straight.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Stella grinned proudly and flicked her switchblade closed, “a new Natasha for the graduation ceremony.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> A comfortable silence took over the pair as they cleaned up, discarding the hair and wiping down the counters. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “сестра,” Natasha whispered, “the ceremony...do you think it will hurt?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Yes,” the response was immediate and hollow, “everything here hurts.” </em>
</p>
<p>The week before, the surviving cohort of Black Widows had been told they were closer to the graduation ceremony, two words that as of yet meant nothing to them. Whispers fluttered around the Academy; some of the girls caught a glimpse of machines and tools being carted into the infirmary, some heard there was a doctor coming who would transform them from teenagers into women. But what caused the most flurry was the prospect of being sent on missions and seeing the outside world. They had spent years studying different societies and languages, learning how they could transform themselves to fit in, become different people altogether, and take what they needed to make their country stronger, to uphold peace and prosperity. </p>
<p>The young women were then subjected to a series of mental and physical tests: how long they could endure the pain of torture and solitary confinement, how fast they could take out targets—inanimate <em> and </em>living—with zero hesitation, and they continued to fight one another both hand-to-hand and with weapons, with a few girls not making it at the final hurdle. </p>
<p>Throughout all this, Natasha and Stella performed stellarly, cementing their already glowing reputations within the Academy. They aced every challenge, every written and oral language test, and every roleplay scenario. Natasha showed supreme dexterity, acting abilities and hacking skills, and Stella proved she was precise and unfeeling in the act of killing. The two women embodied the Black Widow Ops Program, and through their achievements pledged an unspoken allegiance to the Red Room and Department X. Their position within the cohort only brought a single benefit–they were the first to move into their own private sleeping quarters, otherwise they were given harder tests that pushed them to the limits of their forced inhumanity. </p>
<p>“There will be one more test,” Madame B gestured to the doorway. </p>
<p>Two men entered, fresh from the snow. The first was a tall blonde officer, clean cut, donning a long black coat with HYDRA insignia on its wide lapels. The other was a man with broad-built shoulders and long dark hair that framed the predatory expression on his face. His all-black ballistic gear accentuated the brilliance of his left arm which was encased in geometric metal and branded with a single red star. </p>
<p>Both Widows discarded their water bottles and towels, expressions sharpening and shoulders fearlessly squaring off as they approached the newcomers. </p>
<p>“These are our colleagues from HYDRA’s Siberian facility–Officer Novikov and the Soldier,” she continued, “hand-to-hand combat with the Soldier. Strictly no weapons.” </p>
<p>The Soldier stalked forward, seemingly seeing through the two women as if his brain was already processing the fight 5 steps ahead. The two Widows backed away and split apart, one moving to his front and the other stationing herself behind him; then they both leapt forward and the fight began.</p>
<p>Madame B’s eyes moved between Officer Novikov at the doorway back to the fight. “HYDRA has asked for one of them to go with the Soldier,” she said quietly to Dr. Kudrin, “It’s not a command I wish to obey. The distractions that could arise...are a risk.”</p>
<p>“My biotechnology is flawless. Their cells will regenerate at a rapid pace–any foreign body will be considered a parasite and terminated. The girls won’t have to regard wounds, exhaustion, illness,” the doctor crossed her arms over her torso, “<em> motherhood </em>, if that is your concern. Why worry over those who will no longer have weakness?”</p>
<p>“It’s not <em> them </em> I’m worried about.”</p>
<p>With each blow, Natasha and Stella alternated positions on each side of their opponent, but his abilities were far better tuned, and he was able to block their simultaneous attacks from all angles. Natasha jumped, seemingly making a move for his head, but twisted her body at the last minute, arms locking around his neck as she twirled around him. Taking advantage of the moment of destabilization, Stella hopped to his front and delivered varying patterns of punches and kicks, her mind’s eye designing her next sequence of moves for when he escaped her sister’s chokehold. </p>
<p>Whatever thoughts she had dissipated in a sudden gasp as the Soldier broke free and in a flash her throat was encased by metal, his iridescent bicep flexing as he lifted her into the air like a ragdoll, disregarding her hands scratching at his wrists and her legs flailing and colliding with his armour-clad torso. </p>
<p>The others watched intently as he backed their protegé into the wall, her white uniform contrasting against the worn terracotta wallpaper. Upon contact with the hard surface, she clasped her ankles around his lower back. </p>
<p>“Do it,” she choked out, lips twitching into a tender smile, “<em> do it </em>.” </p>
<p>A millisecond of confusion spread over the Soldier’s face at her sudden shift in demeanor, and the way her shallow breaths brought a strange relief to his sweaty brow. He removed his left hand from her neck, and in the blink of an eye replaced it with his right, eliciting further gasps and gurgles. As he pulled his metal arm back to deliver the final blow, he was yanked away by his hair and Stella crashed onto the floorboards, fighting for oxygen and blinking out the constellations in her eyes. </p>
<p>Using the momentum of her pull, Natasha swung up to wrap her thighs around his neck, leveraging both her weight and force to bring him to the ground. Upon releasing him, she somersaulted away and assumed a crouching position, fists up. The Soldier bounced back on his feet, immediately launching himself at her, fists flying in full punches and short jabs, all of which she blocked until he was able to finally grab hold of her wrist, turning her around and placing her in a headlock. </p>
<p>Natasha feigned resistance; like her sister she knew if it ended then and there, it wouldn’t matter. Her mind mapped out every move out of his grip, but she ignored her survival instincts and waited for either Madame B’s call to cease or for him to snap her neck, however the pressure around her neck suddenly released, and she flopped forward. Twisting immediately, she saw the Soldier remained crouched down, arms up. Behind him was Stella, gripping the collar of his ballistic vest, pulling him into a tiny black push dagger she held to the base of his skull. His eyes flickered left and right, calculating, about to continue the fight if the young woman’s cheating wasn’t called out. </p>
<p>“<em> Stop </em>,” Madame B roared, loud and stern, yet not expressing any level of surprise, “Stella, you went against my word.”  </p>
<p>The brunette dropped her weapon, knowing better than to respond. The Soldier turned around, glaring at the young woman who returned the gesture, black and blue interlocked until the matriarch came over and struck her across the face.  </p>
<p>“Sloppy–both of you. Pretending to fail,” she reprimanded both Widows harshly, bending over and holding Natasha’s weary gaze, “the ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world.”</p>
<p>“We have no place in the world.”  </p>
<p>“Exactly,” she turned to the doctor, “put the rest of the girls through the procedure first. I want to make sure it works before we do it on them.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em> Hong Kong, 2014 </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Natasha’s phone buzzed again and she groaned from her place on Stella’s couch, where she had spent the better part of the day horizontal. Her phone had been vibrating for the last 24 hours – her long and convoluted conversation with Clint Barton pretty much continuing nonstop since she was issued a new top of the line (and highly secure) Stark Industries mobile device after hers was unfortunately blown up in her recent run-in with the Winter Soldier. At twilight, she had to tell the archer not to panic at the absence of her responses, but she desperately needed to go to bed. Now it was early afternoon and her thumbs were <em> actually </em> getting sore. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Stella grumbled nearby, “please tell Clint to shut up – I can’t concentrate. Why won’t he just call?” </p>
<p>Natasha turned her head to look behind her, lips pressing into a small smile. Her fellow former Black Widow was sitting at the dining table, consumed by the contents on her tablet, or so she thought. </p>
<p>“He said if he did, Laura would grab the phone and interrogate me as to why you and I aren’t with them at the farmhouse.”</p>
<p>Her response elicited Stella’s usual miffed diatribe about how the apartment was safe enough–<em> beyond </em> safe–and she let out a satisfied sigh while nestling herself back into the couch cushions. After her time from HYDRA hell and back, being in Hong Kong with her sister was a much deserved repose. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed for a second but snapped them back open, remembering that the self-induced darkness was a cue for her brain to replay the events of the last few days, bringing up very non-Black Widow emotions to the surface–something she tried tooth and nail to manage, especially after her display upon arrival yesterday afternoon hours after her Congress hearing.  </p>
<p>
  <em> “Stell?” Natasha called out, slamming the door shut and tossing her keys into the dish on the adjacent side table, “it’s me.”  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Hearing the series of high-security locks automatically click shut, she began feeling the effects of several week’s worth of adrenaline suddenly leaving her nervous system. She slumped against the door, one hand unbuttoning her leather blazer, and the other letting her backpack slide onto the floor. Hearing the glugging of water and the clinking of porcelain, Stella appeared before her – a sight for her truly sore eyes.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Tasha,” Stella set down the teaware, eyes assessing her sister’s state, “are you okay?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Natasha rolled her head to the side, back still firmly against the door, “they’re not gonna send me to a supermax.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “That’s not what I asked.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> That was it. At the five words softly uttered from her sister’s lips, Natasha realized how muddled with information her brain was, how overwhelmed she felt from the sudden revelations and the changes she had to face in such a short time span. Her lips pursed and she let go, body heaving with sobs. She tried to cover her face, but her hand was swatted away as Stella enveloped her.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, сестра.” </em>
</p>
<p>This week had been Natasha’s own personal Doomsday. In order to stop HYDRA’s infiltration of both S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council, she, Steve, Fury, and Maria Hill agreed to execute the encrypted info dump, revealing not only S.H.I.E.L.D.’s decades of secrets, but also those of HYDRA’s and their covert plot for Project: Insight, saving 20 million lives but devastating a major United States intelligence apparatus. For that someone had to answer to Congress, and they wanted that person to be Captain America, so she offered herself; but whether it was her just as Natasha, Black Widow of the Avengers, or super spy from Russia was undetermined. She always believed truth was a matter of circumstance, that she could bend and mold to whoever needed to be captivated by their desired version of the truth, but with all her covers blown, she had lost all her baselines for transfiguration. </p>
<p>She was just strong enough to keep her cool façade throughout the entire ordeal, whether it be from adrenaline or to keep up team morale she wasn’t entirely sure, but inside her mind a storm was breaking out, anxiety like rain clouds dripping regret and paranoia down her spine and filling her lungs. S.H.I.E.L.D. was the foundation of the new life she had built for herself, the life on the right track that she brought her only family into. She fought for them, told lies for them, stole and killed, all in the name of protecting the people, and it was grating on her that those actions were partially for HYDRA. She wanted to pick apart every memory of every mission she had over the last six years and decipher who she was answering to, but she knew it would drive her insane. </p>
<p>It was a complete mind bend that she wasn’t ready for, and matters were made worse at the reappearance of the Winter Soldier. Steve called him a ghost story–what he didn’t know was that the HYDRA assassin was a ghost in more ways than one. </p>
<p>Pulling a favour from one of her old KGB contacts, Natasha retrieved a massive dossier on the Winter Soldier as a gesture of thanks to Steve for saving her life, kickstarting his and Sam’s search for the ghost. If he wasn’t at-large, she wouldn’t have looked, but his re-emergence always reignited a special brand of terror reserved only for him: the fear that he would go looking for her and her sister. Whether it would be a mission ordered by HYDRA, the Russians, or one of his own fruition, she was unsure which was scarier. After reading 50 years worth of reports in a single night she packed a bag, handed off the intel to Steve at Arlington Cemetery after the hearing, and asked Fury to drop her off in Hong Kong. </p>
<p>The events of the last few weeks had exhausted her, and her mental defences were weakened. The entire ride to Asia she stewed on the newest revelation that the Winter Soldier was actually James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s old best friend from Brooklyn who was deemed killed in action in WWII, which mixed and melded with her bitter memories of him; his calculated brutality, the whirring of his metal arm, the tense sleepless nights he elicited every time he led her sister away from her to God knows where.</p>
<p>Her phone buzzed three consecutive times and she looked down at Clint’s messages that by then had spun into general hilarity, “Clint says Laura has a similar speech about their home security, sis. You’re in for it the next time you see her.”</p>
<p>“Speaking of that lovely, spacious home that’s <em> not </em> 16 hours away from D.C.,” the petite brunette walked over to the couch, lifting Natasha’s legs before sitting down and placing them in her lap, “something tells me you didn’t come here only because you broke all your covers.”</p>
<p>“Ever the perceptive one,” Natasha said playfully, cocking a perfect eyebrow, “Since I couldn’t call...I wanted to check on you, to make sure <em> he </em> didn’t come here looking for you.” </p>
<p>“The Winter Soldier?” the question was affirmed with a hum, “I’m sure he’s forgotten both of us by now. If he ever comes here, it’ll only be to eliminate me.”</p>
<p>Natasha bristled at her sister’s nonchalance, “don’t say that.” </p>
<p>“Why not? It’s the truth.”  </p>
<p>“Seeing him again, fighting him under-armed when he was out of his goddamn mind...” she propped herself up on her forearms, “I never liked that they made you go with him. Why weren’t you ever afraid for your life?” </p>
<p>Stella gave her a pointed look.</p>
<p>“You <em> know </em> why.”</p>
<p>The redhead flopped back down, letting her sister’s final words hang in the humid air, their eardrums beating only against Hong Kong’s busy soundscape and the harsh buzzes of Clint’s sporadic texts. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. ghost story, pt. II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Avengers Tower, New York City, November 2014<br/><br/></em>
</p>
<p>“Are you back in the city yet?” </p>
<p>The phone line crackled and Steve sighed internally, hating what he just said. He knew he sounded childish and indiscreet but he was a blown fuse. After agreeing to communicate about his missing person’s case exclusively in-person or over burner phones, the tinny quality of the calls paired with his fellow Avenger’s long, calculated silences were starting to grate on him. Why were phone connections still poor in the 21st century?</p>
<p>He slumped onto the couch in his apartment, where he spent his time mulling over the decades-old information, trying to make the connections that would lead him to Bucky. His vision glazed over the papers and maps strewn across the coffee table out of habit, but his eyes were tired and it was late. He spent all afternoon waiting for Natasha to return from her recon mission with Clint, and when he received notice that the two spies were unharmed, he let his impatience get the better of him and called her. </p>
<p>A part of him felt bad for being so short tempered, after all, without her he and Sam would still be in the dark; she provided them with the dossier and helped translate portions of it, making the process way speedier than two Americans fumbling with a Russian-English dictionary. But he was running out of time–the jet that landed tonight with Natasha on it was the same one that Maria Hill was going to let him take tomorrow morning to chase his next lead. </p>
<p>“It’s not really best practice to give the coordinates over a cell phone line,” Natasha replied passively. </p>
<p>“We’ve been chasing dead ends and time is ticking. You’re avoiding this conversation, Nat. Look, I know you want to protect your old teammate–” </p>
<p>“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS piped up, his cool voice resonating through the room, “Agent Romanov and Agent Barton have arrived.”</p>
<p>Steve jumped up, abruptly ending the call while power walking out his front door, arriving on the common floor just as the quinjet parked on the landing pad. Through the glass sliding doors he could see the folded wings of the aircraft outside, but was more focused on the redhead donned in her usual Black Widow gear coming through the doors with Hawkeye in her stead. His shoulders relaxed a touch, but unknowingly his expression remained stern. </p>
<p>“Woo, someone’s in trouble,” Clint cackled, peeling off his fingerless gloves and using them to smack Natasha’s arm before sauntering to the elevators, “I hope it’s not me.” </p>
<p>“Clint, I take it the mission went well?” </p>
<p>The archer shrugged, still grinning, “same old shit,” he turned his attention towards the elevator as it dinged and its doors opened, “Night, Cap. Night, Nat.” </p>
<p>The two remaining Avengers waited until Clint ascended before turning to each other. </p>
<p>“Where’s Sam?” Natasha asked casually, as if she wasn’t hours late. </p>
<p>“Snoring in my guest room. Said he needed a full 8 hours before piloting the jet,” Steve let out a long sigh. Taking a good look at her, he noticed the exhaustion on her face and immediately felt bad.</p>
<p>“Do you want to get something to eat first?” he asked a bit timidly. </p>
<p>“Whatever you got upstairs will be fine. As long as it’s not boiled cabbage,” her mouth leaned into a smirk.</p>
<p>“I <em> have </em> been living in this century for a few years now, give me some credit.”</p>
<p>///</p>
<p>She took all of 10 minutes to get changed out of her gear and meet him at his place. While she sat on his couch swigging a beer, he heated three slices of leftover pizza in a frying pan – a trick Sam showed him from Youtube. Pizza hot, he handed her the large plate and sat down. They made small talk and once she was done, he cut to the chase, sliding a S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel file across the table, edging it towards her before flicking it open to the front page: </p>
<p><b> <em>NAME: </em> </b> <em> LI, STELLA </em></p>
<p><b> <em>STATUS:</em> </b> <em> INACTIVE-RETIRED </em></p>
<p><b> <em>RESTRICTED ACCESS: </em> </b> <em> LEVEL 6 </em></p>
<p>The profile was 80% marked either classified or redacted. The pages following consisted of thick deprogramming reports, psychiatric analyses and clearances, specialized gear mockups, and STRIKE Team Delta mission summaries–a stack of white documents officiated with emblems but decorated almost completely with square brackets and black bars. </p>
<p>Giving a background brief before delving into questions was standard protocol, but in this case Steve felt odd presenting information that was brand new for him, to a person who had lived the experiences written on those pages. </p>
<p>“Our next lead is your old STRIKE teammate, former Agent Stella Li. Says here you recruited her to S.H.I.E.L.D. after you two trained in the Red Room,” he began.</p>
<p>Natasha leant over, elbows resting on her knees and hands clasped together, eyes staring intently at the document. </p>
<p>“What do you need t’know?” she asked softly, her head nodding towards the pile of papers. </p>
<p>“I just need some basic information about the past that could help inform what I ask her. I need to know,” Steve paused briefly before reframing his statement, “it says here that back in Moscow, Agent Li ‘previously had connections to [classified], an asset of [classified].’ I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume those two blanks mean the Winter Soldier and HYDRA.” </p>
<p>“You said you never met him before, that he was a ghost story,” his tone was borderline accusing, remembering that day at Walter Reed after Fury’s fake death. </p>
<p>“I never said that,” her right eyebrow lifted, “I implied it. And he <em> is </em> a ghost–I only interacted with him on a few occasions in very controlled environments. All the other times he tried to kill me. You think Stella knew him well enough to have any idea where he went?”</p>
<p>“Until we pinpoint another lead, she’s all we’ve got right now.” </p>
<p>The redhead paused for a minute, a contemplative look washing over her face as she tried to gather pieces of the past. </p>
<p>“After Stella and I turned 18,” she began, “we got separated, sent on different missions based on the skillsets we showed exceptional talent in. I went undercover a lot, took on different identities to get what they asked me to–all sorts of intel that would help intercept enemy moves. The Red Room had some kind of deal with HYDRA. They sent Stella on multi-target covert operations with the Winter Soldier. As far as I know, they’d assassinate diplomats, cabinet members, and he would take the mass amounts of information they secured back to his handlers.”</p>
<p>“It went on for a few years, us going on missions and reuniting at the Red Room,” her hands clutched even tighter, “she’d be gone for days and afterwards it was like a piece of her had been taken away. Our training, the conditions we lived in, removed a lot of who we were already, but she became this...shell of a person. She confided in me less and less, and became so short-tempered. I always blamed <em> him </em> , like he was chipping away bits of her soul and handing them over to HYDRA. I think back and I realize that transforming into all those different characters, and as much as I lied and killed, having to pretend to be human is probably what actually <em> kept </em> me human by the end of it all. It’s probably why Clint spared me.”</p>
<p>Steve glanced at the thermostat next to the front door; it felt like the temperature had dropped. He was sitting so close to her that he was sure for a split second she had shuddered from the simple act of remembering. </p>
<p>“I know you’d do anything to get your friend back, but at the same time, I’ll do anything to keep Stella safe,” she continued, “I don’t want her to get pulled back into the world we left. The things they made her do, Steve–some of it even I don’t know.” </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Nat,” Steve said genuinely, his face displaying a flicker of regret, “back in the day, I thought we were so close to destroying HYDRA. But there was so much more we didn’t–”</p>
<p>“The Red Room...it would’ve happened regardless,” she sat back against the cushions, “a year after the Battle of New York, Stella told me she wanted to see the world outside of anyone else’s command. To experience what <em> normal life </em> was like,” she exhaled slowly, a fond look flooding over her face.  </p>
<p>“So that’s what she’s doing now? Travelling?” </p>
<p>She nodded, eyes locking with his, “I can tell you where her base is in Hong Kong, but if she’s not there, then I don’t know where she is.”</p>
<p>“There’s an excuse you’ve never given me before,” he said morosely. Feeling his burner phone vibrate in his back pocket, he whipped it out and gave it a glance: it was a text from Sharon Carter. </p>
<p>“I’ve told you before, Steve. I only <em> act </em> like I know everything.” </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em> An Office at The Shard, London, United Kingdom, The Next Day </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I recognize you,” the large man’s breaths shallowed, his head drooped. Slumped in a chair usually reserved for the guests in his office, he used the last of his strength to communicate with his killer, “we never met, but I heard many stories. The Black Mamba.”</p>
<p>“<em>Now</em> you’re talking?” Stella grumbled, words drawled, not sparing the sleeper agent a glance as she sat at his desk, decrypting and downloading every last file off his computer onto a flash drive, “how far along are you in this dezinformatsiya campaign? Or are we going to have to figure it out after you die?”  </p>
<p>“You can’t stop it. The Western world has become complacent...they have forgotten how to train warriors for democracy,” he wheezed, “once we’re done, your precious America will be gone to hell, a divided nation of cannibals feasting on their own.” </p>
<p>He paused as he coughed out blood that dribbled down his chin, “Mamba, don’t forget who made you. Who you <em> belong </em>to.”</p>
<p>She stilled, eyes staring blankly at the loading bar on the computer screen–if it wasn’t only at 75%, she would’ve taken care of him already. In another era, his rhetoric was woven into the fabric of her being: who she <em> belonged </em> to, who she served in devotion without the expectation of return. His words would’ve sent her into a guilt trip and made her willing to do anything he asked and believe anything he said. </p>
<p>But she was saved by her sister, and they both took a rough journey in unlearning one ideology and accepting another, one that told them they belonged to no one. Some things never change, but she had, and she was slightly insulted this man thought otherwise. </p>
<p>She let out a low whistle, “guess it’ll be after you die, then.”</p>
<p>“For it to be<em> you </em>–it is a real honour.” </p>
<p>The transfer was 100% complete. With the flash drive safely ejected, Stella’s leather gloved fingers flittered over the keyboard, reformatting the machine’s harddrive. Standing up, she reached into her blazer breast pocket, sliding out a slim pearl-handled switchblade that she promptly buried into the base of his skull. With the jerk of her hand, she jostled it out, wiping the dark contents on his shirt. </p>
<p>“I’m sure it is,” she whispered. </p>
<p>She pulled open the heavy wooden door of the office and entered the bright beige waiting room, where four CIA tactical team members were waiting, guns pointed and steady. Upon her solo exit, they lowered their weapons. </p>
<p>“We were waiting for a backup request, agent,” one of them piped up. </p>
<p>“Oh, sorry. No backup needed, but” she pressed her earpiece, opening the communication channel to the rest of the team outside the building, “we need clean up.” </p>
<p>The tactical steam shuffled into the elevator, their absence revealing a lone Sharon Carter at the far end of the space, sitting with ease in one of the waiting room chairs.</p>
<p>“I told them you didn’t need backup,” the blonde said, looking over, a grin playing on her lips. </p>
<p>“But they don’t trust me,” Stella sighed, flopping into the neighbouring chair and holding out her earpiece and the flash drive, which she exchanged for a large wad of British pound notes. “So how’s the new job, really? Are these CIA lackeys treating you okay?” </p>
<p>“As okay as can be under the circumstances,” Sharon answered truthfully, “it was challenging at first, seeing the way people looked at me after what happened last year, but things are looking up. </p>
<p>What she chose to omit was that her personal life was also challenging. Being away from Aunt Peggy as her dementia was growing stronger everyday was hard. But in her moments of lucidity, the fierce co-founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. told her niece to take the new job, to continue to protect people by any means.</p>
<p>The clean up crew arrived, and the women took it as their cue to leave, entering the open elevator. </p>
<p>“Not going to lie,” Sharon continued, “it’s nice having a familiar face around.” </p>
<p>“If you need me again, you know how to get in touch.”</p>
<p>“You know when people retire, they take up hobbies.” </p>
<p>“Maybe I’ll start making big 3D puzzles.” </p>
<p>The blonde scoffed in good humour, “I’m sorry, I can’t imagine those hands assembling a puzzle.” </p>
<p>They parted ways in the lobby of the office building, hugging each other tightly before leaving through separate exits. A few paces into the winter sun and an empty St. Thomas Street, Stella sensed the presence of two individuals trailing her from a distance. Feeling her phone buzz, she swiftly removed it from her pocket and looked down to see a text:</p>
<p>
  <b>Cap alert. I owe you - N </b>
</p>
<p>She continued walking with unaffected purpose, feeling two people flanking her as they travelled down the sidewalk. </p>
<p>“What can I do for you, Captain Rogers?” she asked casually, nodding towards her new sidewalk buddies, “and...friend.”</p>
<p>Turning to her right, she eyed the blonde super soldier clad in a navy baseball cap, jeans, and a grey knit top, his hands shoved into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. This was her first real life encounter with the man out of time–like the majority of other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, she was only familiar with him through photographs and memorabilia immaculately displayed in Phil Coulson’s office. But unlike the others, she was treated to anecdotes, regaled to her by Natasha when she visited in person. To her left was a man she’d never seen before; he was as tall and nearly as broad as Steve, sported well-groomed facial hair and a buzz cut, and dressed in the same lowkey manner.</p>
<p>“Sam Wilson,” the friend answered, leaning his head over to catch her eye when he was met with complete silence, “you know, The Falcon?” </p>
<p>“Never heard of The Falcon.” </p>
<p>“You’ve never–I practically<em> saved </em> all of humanity's a––”</p>
<p>“Agent Li,” Steve cut off Sam’s antics, “can you tell us anything you know about the current whereabouts of this man?” He flashed his phone at her eye level, revealing a clear surveillance image of the Winter Soldier. </p>
<p>“I’m just as in the dark as you are,” she answered, speaking so instantly she just about clipped the end of Steve’s question, “perhaps even moreso.”  </p>
<p>“But you knew him.” </p>
<p>She unexpectedly stopped and glimpsed towards the end of the street at the crowded crosswalk. </p>
<p>“It was a long time ago.”</p>
<p>“Is there somewhere we can meet you later?” Sam asked tentatively, shooting a glance at his increasingly impatient companion, “Miss, we understand you might not want to rehash old memories, but this is really important.” </p>
<p>She paused momentarily before gesturing for them to follow her back up the street. Stopping, she pointed out a narrow doorway of a stone building that was attached to a seemingly bustling posh restaurant. </p>
<p>“You see that doorway on the left? Meet me there tomorrow morning, 08:00. Go up the staircase, someone will let you in. We’ll be alone for a few hours.” </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em> Old Operating Theatre Museum &amp; Herb Garret, London, United Kingdom, 08:00, The Next Morning</em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>“This is a really weird place,” Sam muttered to Steve, eyes focused on the long sign mounted opposite to them in the large concave wood paneled room where they were seated that read <em> Miseratione non mercede </em>. He didn’t know what the hell it meant, but it didn’t give him sunny vibes. When he and Steve arrived, he wondered if the woman they were about to meet was going to perform a theatrical assassination, or if she just appreciated unconventional historical sites. </p>
<p>“They used to <em> operate </em> on people in here, Steve,” he grumbled. </p>
<p>“Just relax.”</p>
<p>Stomping echoed through the room as Stella arrived at the top of the stairs behind them, clad in a casual monochromatic ensemble, the silver of her necklace glinting in the museum’s artificial light. She descended down the steps and they both stood, Sam welcoming her to sit inside their row next to Steve. </p>
<p>“Thank you for meeting with us, Agent Li.” Steve nodded at her, rubbing his palms on his blue jeans in nervous anticipation. </p>
<p>“Please, call me Stella. And I wanted to thank <em> you </em>,” she displayed a hint of a smile, “for everything you did for Natasha when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell.” </p>
<p>His eyebrows raised, “it was a mutual exchange, if you could call it that. We’re friends.” </p>
<p>“She trusts you both. That’s the only reason I agreed,” her gaze flicked between the former soldiers, “although I can’t guarantee I’m going to tell you anything you haven’t learned already.”</p>
<p>Steve unzipped a backpack that was resting next to him on the seat and pulled out a thick folder marked with Russian, tied closed with a red string. When he opened it, Stella’s eye twitched at the full size photograph attached to the inside–a blue tinted image of the Winter Soldier, eyes shut, behind the frosty glass of a metal chamber. Clipped to it was a small, worn square sepia-toned photo of a young man, clean shaven, with a defined jaw and a soft, sweet gaze. He was an American soldier, she gathered by his uniform and service cap, stylishly tilted to one side. World War II. It didn’t take a forensic genius to realize it was the same person, but <em> how </em> it was the same person, she wasn’t able to grasp. </p>
<p>“This man,” Steve looked down at the photos, his long eyelashes fluttering, “you know him as the Winter Soldier, but his real name is James Buchanan Barnes. He was–is my best friend, practically my brother. We grew up together in Brooklyn. Bucky had the biggest heart...I think he got that from his folks...” </p>
<p>Sam averted his gaze, the replica operating table across from him suddenly becoming very engaging. No matter how many times he heard Steve’s story, the weight of his friend’s loss and the guilt surrounding what happened was the same each and every time. Through their conversations over the last 6 months travelling between New York and Europe, he got to know more about Bucky; not the brutal assassin he encountered in D.C. but the young vivacious and supportive best friend with the inimitable swagger, who rescued Steve from alleyway fights and tricked him into double dates at the local dance halls. The burden that Steve carried wasn’t so different from the others that frequented the Veteran’s Association; he listened to the super soldier repeat again and again how it was his fault that his best friend was fashioned into a killer, that he should’ve had the sense to search for him rather than make assumptions. Although it fell on deaf ears, Sam continued to dole out the truth: that it wasn’t Steve’s fault, there was a war going on, they didn’t have the resources, there was nothing that could’ve been done. </p>
<p>It was Sam’s job to counsel veterans, those whose environments he had experienced and could envision as soon as he shut his eyes–the unbearable heat, the frizzle of shots fired, the putrid smells, the despair and destruction–it was his duty to listen and provide reassurance that life still had value, that it could continue on. But ever since the emergence of Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov in his life that fated week of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s demise, a new world opened up to him, one of next-level unimaginable heroics and espionage, that while bearing similarities in its intense losses and horrors involved a slew of situations and characters that came straight from the comic books he read as a kid. His world now involved super soldiers from World War II and primo secret agents–like the woman across from him listening to stories of a man she thought she knew, absorbing the gravitas of a complicated history while sitting as still as a statue, not giving anything away. </p>
<p>Stella let Steve finish before tearing her eyes away from the photos. The air, to her, was asphyxiating. A cold buzz was secretly coursing up and down her body, and the contents of her stomach threatened to make an appearance.</p>
<p>“He could be anywhere by now. If any amount of sleeper HYDRA agents still exist in the States, I’m sure they did a data scan of all flights departing North America after his disappearance. If they haven’t found him yet, they won’t stop looking. He was their greatest asset.” </p>
<p>“We’re thinking we can connect some dots using behavioural patterns, habits, events from his recent past. You’re credited with being his mission partner in some of these reports,” the super soldier flipped some of the weathered pages over, “I think your picture was attached to a few of these papers at some point,” he pointed at lone staples that were still embedded in the sheets.</p>
<p>“This is the first time I’ve seen any of these,” she reached out and ran her fingers over one of the staples, a torn crumb of glossy paper still clinging to it. <em> Tasha must have removed them </em>, she thought gratefully. “May I?” </p>
<p>He nodded and handed the pile over to her. All the originals were in Russian, accompanied by extraneous sheets with English translations in various handwriting, some of which she recognized as Natasha’s. She swiftly flipped through the pile, stopping on a report closer to the top. Her eyes meticulously trailed left and right, absorbing the page’s contents as quickly as she could. </p>
<p><b> <em>Recondition Report, Asset X</em> </b> <em> : March 3, 2006, 21:30  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Author:</em> </b> <em> Konstantin Vujić </em></p>
<p><b> <em>Approved: </em> </b> <em> Vasily Karpov </em></p>
<p>
  <em> ...the first failed mission by Asset X and Widow II (Black Mamba)...subject reports infiltration by American intelligence… </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> ...memory reconditioning 75% successful…subject’s mind has gained increased autonomy in the last two days...exhibiting intense agitation... </em>
</p>
<p>Her focussed expression stilled on the final sentence of the report, underlined three times in red pen: </p>
<p>
  <em> Continuously calls for a ‘star.’  </em>
</p>
<p>“Дерьмо́,” she swore, the Russian automatically tumbling out of her mouth. <em> Shit </em>. </p>
<p>Sam’s gaze drifted over to Steve; his eyes were cast down and his hands were balled into tight fists. It must’ve been the dozenth time his friend had read over these reports, yet they continued to elicit the same reaction. Only knowing these people for a relatively short amount of time–Steve, Natasha, and now Stella–Sam was aware he was only scratching the surface of the turmoil they endured. With their enemies constantly at large and extending decades into the past, he wondered if any of them continued to fight to even seek resolution, if they ever anticipated a life of peace. </p>
<p>“Is it real?” Sam slowly uttered his inquiry, almost afraid the tension in the air would crack like lightning through a cloud, “do you know if this is what they did to him?” </p>
<p>At her confirmation, Steve shot up and paced the row, running his hands through his hair. Several beats passed between them as Stella contemplated how much to tell a man who was already in distress. </p>
<p>“The Winter Soldier and I used to go out on missions, up to three days at a time. I figured early on he wasn’t there under his own will, none of us <em> assets </em> were, but I didn’t...I–” she rarely stumbled with her words, but her brain felt full to the brim with incomprehensible information. </p>
<p>“I knew he went under a cryo-freeze after each mission. He told me once,” she revealed, “I didn’t know about the memory wipes,” she stopped herself from divulging too much: <em> the opposite was done to me </em>.  </p>
<p>She couldn’t remember her life before being taken to the Red Room, all she knew was that she was too young to have a choice. It was slowly dawning on her that the Soldier had an entire life before they had been forced together, one that he probably didn’t want to leave, and they took it all away from him. She had nothing, but the Red Room planted in her head that she had it all: a family that never existed, special ballet lessons at the Bolshoi, life experiences that simply weren’t real. Her brain and her tongue were having a battle; she wanted so badly to ask about what he was like back then, how different he would’ve been untouched by HYDRA, young and carefree. Instead, she turned her gaze to the floor.</p>
<p>At the visible distress of his companion, Sam decided to take over the conversation, “this word, ‘star,’ comes up in this report from 2006 and then appears a bunch in subsequent documents up until last May. He would murmur it after waking up from cryo, even after they wiped his mind,” he reached over and pointed at the last word of the last line, <em> ‘ </em>звезда.’  </p>
<p>“It’s pronounced ‘zvezda.’” </p>
<p>“Is it code?” </p>
<p>“No,” her voice dropped decibels as her finger traced over the three deep red lines, “it’s what he used to call me.”  </p>
<p>The wood of the bench creaked as Steve returned to his seat. </p>
<p>“He remembers you,” his voice was strained, an intense wash of emotions getting the better of him, “he’s remembered you for the last 9 years, Stella.” </p>
<p>“Nine years is a lot shorter than 70, Steve,” Sam immediately reasoned, trying to protect his friend from a sense of false hope.</p>
<p>“<em>I know </em> he remembered me,” Steve rebutted, “he saved me from the Potomac. Maybe he doesn’t remember everyone,” <em> everyone he’s met;</em> <em>everyone he’s killed </em> , “but maybe <em>this </em> means–” He let out an exasperated puff of air. </p>
<p>He was prevented from going any further by the sharp slap of the dossier closing shut in Stella’s lap. Her voice was solemn as she returned the papers to him, “you’re wondering if, after all he’s been forced to do, whether he still has the capacity to be human?” </p>
<p>She took the briefest moment to analyze Steve’s expression–his tense body language extending into his clenched jaw, the determination and hope that resided in his eyes. HYDRA to her was a dark pit, an inescapable prison that chained those they were ardent to keep, like the Soldier, like the failed experiments they kept in the recesses of their facilities, like her. She realized, out of all the people in the world who could be looking for the Soldier, Steve was the only one whose strength and radiance could potentially match the fire that HYDRA would bring in the battle to find their greatest asset.</p>
<p>Steve gulped, “Do <em> you </em> think he does?” </p>
<p>“Yes,” she held out her hand when Steve’s mouth opened, and continued, “how I know...that’s between him and me. But I’ll tell you anything else you want to know.”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. longing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Slightly smutty.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> The Red Room Academy, Moscow, 2004</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stella’s fingers ghosted over the keys of the polished black piano stationed in the Red Room’s ballet studio. There wasn’t a single soul in sight, yet the dampened taps of pointe shoes and the relentless stomping of ballet master Sterelny’s staff echoed in her head. Sitting down on the cold bench, her eyes swept over the sheet music left by the previous player, Sergei Lyapunov’s <em>12 Études d'exécution transcendante, Op.11: Tempête</em>. She didn’t need to read the music; whatever they had, they memorized. They had to.</p>
<p>Her fingers produced the perfect amount of pressure on the keys. Following the composition with the utmost precision, anyone raised outside this environment would think Stella felt something. As the erratic melody perfumed her surroundings, she briefly closed her eyes, thirsting for the way the rumbling of the instrument cut under the floorboards and through her body, a distraction from the most recent memory that yearned to play out in her mind’s eye. </p>
<p>This free time was a reward for a mission seamlessly accomplished. Three days ago she was sent to Ufa with HYDRA’s top asset to locate a secret CIA base and lift their equipment and intel; they completed the mission in two and a half days. She spent her self-appointed free time that evening at the piano too, just as she did every mission, forever associating it as a prelude of what would come next. </p>
<p>
  <em> “Beautiful,” the Soldier drawled in his expected monotonous tone. He was sitting next to the unlit fireplace in their safe house, clutching a now empty glass tumbler. He watched Stella at the piano, her back rigid as she tapped out the final notes to a sonata. In her thick black sweater and matching combat trousers, inky hair cascading in wispy waves and tiny braids, she looked like a shadow divorced from the living being it was always meant to follow. </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Do you even know what beauty </em> is <em> ? Did they teach you that, wherever you came from?” Stella retorted playfully–one of her many attempts to jest with her mission partner, seeking some form of vitality from him. He only let out a huff, which to her was always a victory. </em></p>
<p>She and the Soldier had been dancing around each other for months like predator stalking predator. After her and Natasha’s graduation ceremony, he began training the two of them to be stronger, more agile, and more brutal. Better at playing characters and coercing targets for intelligence, Natasha was permitted to execute missions on her own. It was decided that Stella would be best put to use paired with HYDRA’s most prized possession, acting as hunters to perform three functions: intimidate, gather intel, and kill–abilities that Stella would take to S.H.I.E.L.D. to be exploited by Director Fury after the Black Widow agreed to stay with the good side on the condition that her <em> sestra </em> be saved and granted asylum.</p>
<p>The tension that rose between the two was inexplicable, a part of life that Madame B and the ladies of the Red Room never trained Stella for. She thought she had numbed her capacity to feel; the months of her life bled together the more she drew the blood of others, time only marked by the next mission. The first time she felt the flutter in her chest, she thought she was on the cusp of a heart attack, until she reminded herself the serum made it impossible. When she was assigned the next mission with the Soldier, the stir in her chest returned at the prospect of his arrival, like a coil, tense and twisting. It was a sensation that she fought, but the coil sat heavily in her chest and wound each time he offered to equip her with an extra weapon, when he systematically checked over her locking harness at the start of each mission, everytime they perfectly synchronized a kill. The alien feeling in her heart became increasingly difficult to repress until it poured out in cascades of caresses and kisses and soft motions–all reciprocated with the fullest force. </p>
<p>
  <em> “Mission report,” the Soldier teased sarcastically, setting his glass down and stalking towards her.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Stella sat still, eyes resting on the keys of the piano, always allowing him the first serve in their never-ending game. Kneeling behind her, he trailed his right hand up her spine, grazing the pathways made by her bones–the dips and protrusions he had memorized in a short few months–and when his palm encased her collarbone, he softly stretched open the neckline of her sweater. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Targets eliminated,” she hummed, leaning her head to the left.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He brushed her hair off her shoulder, and wrapped his left arm around her torso. The first kiss landed in the crook of her neck, the second a few centimetres higher, the third on her jaw. His stubble felt like electrodes against her flesh. She could hear his arm whirr and with a jerk, he pulled her flush to him.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “How?” he growled in her ear. </em>
</p>
<p>She hissed, pounding the keys harder. The acts they shared in private, the ones that lay outside death and torture and theft and obedience, felt all consuming. The tune’s staccato punctuated the racing in Stella’s chest that she deeply desired to quell. She wanted to push away sensory memories of him: his teeth nipping at her thighs, his jagged exhalations on her shoulder, the coolness of his left palm gripping the nape of her sweaty neck, the weight of him, his restraint as they wrestled for dominance. She barked at her heart to stop its frantic beating. </p>
<p>
  <em> “Do you want me to stop?” his voice took on a rare timidity. His right hand cupped her face and she grazed her swollen lips against his warm palm. He always asked; she always reminded him she was hard to break. The yellow light of the small lamp on the bedside table shone across his exposed back, permitting his metal arm to bear a false sun in its reflection. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Don’t stop,” she exhaled, and he eclipsed her. </em>
</p>
<p>Their duo missions became more frequent since his training with the Widows ended. After being released from cryofreeze, he would receive orders from HYDRA before being escorted by jet from Siberia to Moscow to the remote Red Room, arriving in the middle of the night to step into Stella’s private quarters while she was in bed, stationing himself on a chair positioned across from her lying form. Upon sitting down, he would whisper, “звезда”–a greeting that he didn’t realize fell on her ears. <em> Star </em>. She would always hear him, but never visibly stirred, only acknowledging his presence when she woke to receive orders. </p>
<p>They would not sleep again until their mission was complete, until the safe house. Perhaps exhaustion brought a weakness their masters didn’t yet know how to erase, a vulnerability, a nerve, that was always re-exposed just before permission to slumber.  </p>
<p>
  <em> A wash of sunlight pronounced by snow snuck through the curtains of the bedroom. Stella woke, her body knowing the day had hit 06:00. She slept on her back with an arm raised above her head – a muscle memory that seemed impossible to erase. She stilled for a few minutes before lowering her arm and rolling over. He was there on his side like he always was, the blankets pooling around his waist, eyes half open and locked onto her. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “They’ll be here soon,” his voice was rough. There would never be a time in their shared existence when ‘good morning’ rolled off their tongues.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He slid his left arm under the sheets, lightly gripping her torso and pulling her towards him. She waited a beat before leaning in, the collision of their kiss acting as their final wake up call.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “солдат,” Soldier, she whispered, “Do you ever wish we could stay like this forever?” </em>
</p>
<p>A mistake. It was a horrible mistake. Increasing her speed on the piano’s keys, tempo cutting through the air, she rendered the piece imperfect but she didn’t care. She just wanted to forget. Why wasn’t the music making her forget? </p>
<p>
  <em> His brow creased, “wish?” He didn’t understand the word. It was never used on missions, never spoken by victims in their final attempts at negotiating for their lives, “I–” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “We should get ready,” Stella jolted out of his grasp and pushed the covers away, getting out of bed.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> His eyes drank in her pear-shaped form, wandering to her thighs that no longer held traces of last night’s physical confession.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “звезда,” he called. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She threw him a tender look over her shoulder, “forget my words, солдат.” </em>
</p>
<p>The final cord reverberated through the studio. Stella’s cheeks burned with frustration, and her chest heaved as she gasped for air, like she had been choked to the edge of oblivion. She wanted to raise her fists and pound her temples. <em> Had she changed? </em> She didn’t get a second more to think as her attention shot to the redhead stationed at the archway, whose neutral expression was betrayed by the minute widening of her jade eyes–something only Stella was attuned to. Before Natasha could open her mouth in concern, the brunette dropped her head towards her chest, squeezing her eyes shut.</p>
<p>“How do I know if I feel love, сестра?”</p>
<p>Whatever question Natasha had died on her lips.</p>
<p>“How do I kill it?”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>